The Sebastia Moran Chronicles
by Blurring Fandoms
Summary: The life and times of the Tigress, the Sniper, the Colonel. Lust, Loss, Love, and probably Liquor. (A series of one-shots that are hopefully in a coherent order. A collection of the core stories of Sebastia's life, the rest of which are posted on their own.)
1. When We Collide

She saw him from across the room, and he had her intrigued from the get go. He sat gazing around the room as if he owned it. He oozed a haughty confidence that she rarely saw elsewhere. She tried to catch his eye, but he looked right through her. A toss of her blond hair, a twirl of her straw, those simple things that usually had men at her feet left him unfazed. Swigging down the last of her gin, she headed to the dance floor, tugging on the nearest tie. He still didn't see her. She knew if he looked in her direction and actually paid attention, he could see her gyrating hips and swirling hair. But the glances in his direction out of the corner of her eye showed she wasn't any closer to getting his attention. She sighed, crossing her arms and cocking her hips, gazing in his direction for a split second before making another decision. She headed to the karaoke machine, ignoring the line and the protests of the few who dared to speak up against her. There were still a few who were unaware that this bar may as well be hers. She whispered in the dj's ear and grabbed the mike, flashing a smirk. Ke$ha began to pound through the speakers, and to Sebastia's delight the dark haired mystery man glanced up at her. Their eyes met for a moment, green meeting brown, before she began her performance.

"What do I do with a boy like you, li-like you, what do I do with you?"

She risked glances his way every so often. Sometimes he was watching, sometimes his attention had drifted off in another direction, but at least now he had seen her.

"You're so, you're so beautiful and dangerous. Hot and cold, don't you see the light, boy? I could blow your mind, boy, let me be your new toy."

A glance or two more was enough to get across the fact that her performance was aimed at him. She saw him raise an amused eyebrow and flash her a smirk. Her reply was a twist and a swish of her hips.

"I do what and I get what I want when I want it w-want it w-want it."

He was paying attention now. She let her focus dance elsewhere, teasing with nonchalance. As she wrapped up the last few notes, she tipped in a little bow and handed back the mike. She sauntered down the stairs, tossing kisses in the directions of the loudest cheers. She paused when she felt a little hand on her elbow. She turned to meet brown eyes and a playful smile matched with an equally playful Irish accent.

"Was that all for me," he questioned softly, a roguish edge in his voice.

She gently slipped her elbow from his grip, taking a few playful steps backwards, eyes dragging up and down his figure. He was sharply dressed, and he stood with authority. "Maybe it was."

"Why?" It was a simple question, level, without any ulterior motive. Just curiosity.

She stepped toe to toe with him again, slipping her fingers around his tie. "Because, unlike the rest of the idiots in this bar, you're interesting. There is something different about you, something I can't quite put my finger on. "

He raised an eyebrow at her, eyes trailing down her neck, fingers dipping inside her shirt to lift the chain that held her dog tags. "Army?"

"Sniper."

"Good?"

"The best."

His smile grew. "And what's a good little soldier doing in a seedy bar like this?"

She leaned in to whisper in his ear. "I run this bar."

Even though she couldn't see his grin, she could practically feel it as he slipped his fingers around and through hers, pulling her through the crowd. As they exited into the cool London air, he turned to her. "I need someone to help me out. To have my back. Interested in the next war?" His hand slid around her waist, tugging her close, nose brushing hers. She could feel his smile lightly against her lips and she mirrored it.

"Oh yes."


	2. When You Hit the Concrete

Sebastia grinned as she pulled the blindfold from John's eyes. "Hello, Johnny boy," she singsonged, running a finger down his nose with a sweet smile. John grimaced at her, wriggling against the restraints that held him to the wall.

"What do you want, Sebastia?"

She giggled and stroked his cheek, letting his light stubble glide under her fingertips. "Aww, don't be cross with me. I just had a tiny, teensy favor to ask of you." She pulled her phone from the back pocket of her tiny jean shorts, the kind she wore undercover or when she wanted to get something, and waved it under John's nose. "I need you to call your little detective for me."

John grimaced, annoyed and pained. "Sebastia, he's dead," John managed to croak out.

Sebestia clicked her tongue at him and slid her phone into his jeans pocket, pulling a knife out of her pocket. She flipped it open and delicately traced his jawline. "Now, now, don't be difficult, dear. I'm sure he's as dead as Moriaty."

John's eyes widened. "Moriaty's alive?"

Sebastia laughed, but a hint of doubt showed through in her eyes. "Of course he's alive. Somewhere. And he'll come back when he's good and ready. Until then I'm carrying on in his place. Now, call Sherlock for me?"

John closed his eyes and shook his head. He didn't want to look at her hopeful, believing face, it just hurt. She didn't know or didn't believe, one of the two. "I can't," he insisted, a bit roughly this time, "he's dead."

She rolled her eyes and bent down to pick an apple off the ground, setting in on his head with a little bat and booping his nose. "Don't move." She turned and sashayed away, hips swaying. As she whirled back around to face him she flung her knife. She didn't take a moment to aim or even come to a complete stop before she released. John tensed, but he never felt the impact. He heard a giggle as Sebastia flounced over and pulled the apple off his head, taking a bite. "Scared?"

He sighed, going a bit slack against his restraints. "So, how do I get out of here?" With Sebastia in this mood, she was playing with him. She'd done it before, a few times. Honestly, being put back in danger had helped him. She was a pain, but as far as he knew she didn't want him dead so he was safe. She flashed him an 'oh, you're so clever' smile and kissed his cheek. While she was near, she whispered, "I already told you."

He groaned. "Sebastia," he bit out.

She slung an arm over his shoulder and laid her head on his shoulder. "John, please don't be difficult. You just call the little Holmes and you can be on your way."

John sighed. "Sebastia, he's dead. Moriarty is dead. They are dead. I know it's hard to grasp, I had trouble with it myself. Just," he let out a tired sigh, "just let me go, alright?" As he spoke Sebastia had lifted her head to gaze at him in disbelief. He nodded to the restraints around his wrists, which she half-heartedly undid, leaning against his chest as he wrapped her up in his arms.

"Is he really dead," she mumbled softly against his chest.

He squeezed her a little tighter. Most people would think it was weird, cradling the right hand woman of the man who killed your best friend, but it was how they worked. "Yeah," he replied softly into her hair.

She took a deep breath, pulled away from him, and placed a kiss on his cheek. The killer was back, the girl was gone. She was a soldier like him, and she could flip that switch with ease. "See you later." She pulled her phone out of his pocket, not shyly either, and flounced away. John stood for a moment, staring after her. He sighed and shook his head, a soft smile crossing his lips.

He was in trouble.


	3. That's Doctor to Everyone Else

"John, was it?"

The small blond circles him with a smirk. She's small, yes, but he's learned from their few meetings not to underestimate her. She's ferocious. 'My friends call me the tiger,' she quipped once. And now she has him wrapped in a chain, and the metal has been pressed into his wrists long enough to be warmed by his skin. He assumes he was out for a while. He glances over his shoulder at her.

"Why am I here, Moran?"

She frowns and saunters back around, squatting in front of him and sneering. "Like you don't know. You've been following me, and I don't like it. I'm giving you one warning. Get lost."

He smirks back. "But we had such a nice connection. We even had coffee."

She takes his chin in her hand, turning his head to examine him, and he lets her. "You are a strange specimen, Mr. Watson. Your life in my hands, and you decide it's a good idea to make light of it."

"Life is too short."

"Yours might be shorter than you expect."

He smiles wryly. "I could've died long ago." His eyes flick down to her dog tags and she wraps her hand around them, as if to shelter them from his gaze. She releases them to dip a finger under his collar, fishing out his own dog tags and holding them up to inspect them. He watches her face as she watches his tags, observing the change. Her face softens a bit. He's pretty sure he isn't going to die today. Not that she won't mess with him.

She drops his tags and the smirk is back. She taps his nose with her finger and stands. "Leave me alone, got it? It's not you, it's me, really." With that she turns and heads for the door of the empty warehouse.

"Wait, are you just going to leave me here," he questions a bit incredulously.

"Bye!"

"Moran."

"Moran!"


	4. I Don't Want to Go Home Tonight

John was up out of bed as soon as he heard the door of his flat creak open quietly. Gun in hand, he headed silently to the living room, clearing each room with a well-practiced precision. All seemed to be quiet, with the exception of his open door. He closed it softly, locking it snugly before going to make another round through the house. As soon as he turned around he felt her against his chest and smelled gunpowder.

"Sebastia," he questioned softly, his grogginess making it sound a bit rougher than he intended. He felt her nod against his chest, so he slipped the gun in his waistband and wrapped her in his arms. He could feel the slight stickiness of drying blood on her arm, and he gently pulled away to switch on a light and examine her. There were dark circles under her eyes and her lip was busted. He took her chin in one hand to turn her face, examining for other injuries there. Then his eyes moved down her arm and across her torso. The blood on her arm seemed to be hers, but the blood splattered across her torso wasn't, much to his relief. He intertwined his fingers in hers, leading her to the bathroom.

It wasn't the first time he had patched her up, though it was the first time she had woken him in the middle of the night. She usually strolled into his clinic, or was waiting in his flat when he got home. Once or twice he'd even found her curled up by the door on his way to work in the morning. She sat on the counter, legs dangling, watching his hands as he began to tend gently to her arm. He cleaned it and wrapped it, lifting to place a gentle kiss on top of the gauze. He held her hand quietly for a moment before questioning her softly.

"Why are you here?"

She simply shrugged, obviously not in the mood to talk. She was like this the few times she had shown up in the morning too. He gave her a soft smile, brushing her blood-stained blond hair out of her face before dabbing gently at her lip. After that was tended to, he tugged at the hem of her bloodied shirt. She peeled it off and tossed it in the bathtub, now perched on his counter in a black bra and dirty jeans. She had more scars than he did, and he couldn't help but run his finger across one. She watched his fingers, then gently brushed them away to stand and shed her jeans, tossing those in the bathtub as well. John pulled his t-shirt off, tugging it over her head as she pushed her arms through, ensuring she was careful around her bandaging. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and he pulled her legs around his waist as she tucked her head in the crook of his neck. He carried her to his bedroom, laying her down and curling around her. Tomorrow would be morning showers and then disappearing into the crowd, but for now she was in his arms. As much as he hated to admit it, he loved falling asleep to the spice of gunpowder and metallic bite of blood in her hair. She was so soft and subtle, but he knew underneath all that a tiger slept.

He was in trouble.


	5. Blood on the Carpet

She was covered in blood, and none of it was hers. John wasn't supposed to be home, but when she opened the door, he was sitting on the couch reading the paper. He immediately stood, going into doctor mode.

"Sebastia, are you okay? Where-"

She held up a hand to cut him off, letting out a sigh. "I didn't think you'd be home." He looked confused, but at the moment she didn't want to explain. She had kicked her boots off outside, so she padded to the tub, piling her clothes carefully in the sink and washing the dried blood out of her hair. Once she was clean, she washed her clothes, draping them over the tub to dry. She emerged in one of his plaid shirts, plopping down on the couch.

"My clothes should be dry soon."

"John lowered his paper, glancing over at her. "Are you okay?'

She smiled half-heartedly and nodded. The smile faded into a frown as soon as he looked back down at the paper in his lap, and he caught it out of the corner of his eye./p

"You're not okay." He stood and joined her on the couch, tilting her chin towards him. She frowned, avoiding his eyes.

"I didn't think you'd be home."

"Yeah, you said that. Why didn't you want me home?"

She was silent, still avoiding his gaze. He sighed. "Well, since you're not hurt, I'm guessing that wasn't your blood. I know you kill people, Sebastia, if that's what you're worried about. You've got to stop worrying about what I think about your jobs."

She looked up at him, worry in her eyes. He smiled softly, cupping her cheek and stroking it gently with her thumb. She smiled back, some of the fear melting away. John grinned and kissed her forehead, pulling her to his chest. She melted into him, mumbling apologies about getting his shirt all wet with her hair. He told her it was fine. It was all fine. He wasn't just a doctor. He was a soldier as well, and she was his killer. They were a mess, but he loved the disaster.


	6. Drag Me Up the Ladder

Knowing Sebastia is like climbing a ladder. But the thing is, it's a ladder that you don't move up on unless it allows you. And it doesn't so much allow you as it just drags you up a rung whether you like it or not.

Their first meeting, just after Sherlock's fall, was all cold, sarcastic flirting and heated death threats. John needed the truth, so he began looking for evidence that Moriarty was real. He needed evidence that it wasn't all a lie, not for himself, but for everyone else. Sebastia Moran was his evidence, and she was just as bitter about Moriarty's death as he was about Sherlock's. She shot him in the arm.

The next few meetings were caused by John chasing leads. Eventually she caught him and told him to leave her alone. There was more cold flirting, though not as cold as before. She drug him up a rung. She left him chained up in a warehouse.

They ran into each other on the street, and he called her out on her bag that was conveniently large enough to hold a deconstructed sniper rifle. She pulled a shoe box out with a new pair of heels with a smirk, but he saw a flash of metal. She yelled like they were a fighting couple and slapped him.

A few more meetings and a few more fights later she showed up bleeding at his flat. He let her in and played doctor with a gun pressed to his head. He insisted the gun wasn't necessary. She didn't believe him. She knocked him out.

The next time she showed up bleeding there was no gun. Up another rung. He patched her up without a word. No questions, no cold flirting. She kissed his head on the way out.

He started seeing her more and more, and it was okay. He was being drug up the ladder and he didn't mind, because she was chaos and he missed the thrill.


	7. Weak in the Knees (Or Maybe Just Weak)

It's been a month. Ever since their first meeting, she's appeared weekly at the very least. Now it's been over a month and he hasn't seen her or heard from her, there haven't been any late night visits or meetings on the street. And as much as he hates to admit it, he's worried. They've gotten close, closer than he should be to his supposed enemy, and he's worried that she's gotten herself hurt or worse. Those jobs she does are dangerous, he knows, and he wishes sometimes that he could convince her to stop. He could take care of her, provide for her, keep her safe.

But she would hate that.

She is independent. She is a soldier and a fighter, and she can take care of herself. But she's driving him mad. He sits in his flat every night hoping she'll knock on his door, or just let herself in. He debates going out and trying to track her down, but he assumes it will be useless.

When there is a knock on his door he almost jumps out of his skin, standing so fast his head spins and barreling through the darkness clouding up behind his eyes. He flings the door open to see her standing there, looking more tired than he's ever seen her. He doesn't think twice before tugging her to his chest, crashing their lips together as he squeezes the tears out of his eyes. He feels her go weak at the knees, and his are barely holding him up as well, so he scoops her up and carries her to the couch. John presses his face into the crook of her neck. She sits on his lap, running her fingers through his short hair and murmuring apologies. Every night had been nightmares about finding her body, and he had almost lost sight of the hope of getting her back. Now all he wants to do is hold her, and she isn't arguing.

He can't lose anyone else.

He isn't sure how long they stay like that, just sitting on the couch. It's late by the time she pulls out of his embrace. He opens his mouth to protest for once, but she takes his hand and pulls him to his bedroom. They sleep with his hand in her hair and her nose on his cheek, and for the first night in a while, he doesn't have nightmares.


	8. Alive -- Heart of Gold

She made him feel alive again.

When Sherlock died he died along with him. Then Sebastia swept into his life, electrifying him until his heart started beating again. Perhaps that was why it was so easy to let her into his head, despite everything she was and everything she had done. He had made mistakes too. He was a soldier once, wasn't he? And so was she. Another reason why he let her in. He found comfort in finding the reasons why, like it justified the absurd decision.

He told himself he had done the right thing over and over, until he finally believed it. He let go of the apprehension. He let go of the judgment. He held onto her, and he let himself live.

* * *

He was her knight in shining armor. He was the one who put up with her when her whole world shot himself in the head.

Bleeding in his tub in the middle of the night.

Watching telly on his couch while he was away.

Being destructive and violent.

Being angry.

Being evil to the core.

Actually, he was the one who made her doubt that she was evil to the core. When she was around him she was different. She was thoughtful. She was quieter. She was better. And when she fumbled and pointed a gun at him or broke a teacup he would just sigh and roll his eyes and rub his face. She would apologize and he would forgive her and they would go on with whatever they were doing.

He made her better.

He had a heart of gold so bright in shone out of him and warmed her. She was rarely thankful for things, but she was thankful for him. He took care of her. He believed in her. She was thankful everyday for his heart of gold.


	9. Fighting You to Stay Alive

John loved arguing with Sebastia. He used to trade quips with Sherlock all the time, but it was different with Sebastia. He wasn't sure exactly what made it different. Maybe it was her flirty smile, or the way she never pulled punches. Or maybe he was kidding himself, and he just loved arguing with her because it reminded him of the blissful days before Sherlock jumped. Either way, he savored the lazy evenings in his flat on the couch, arguing with her, arguing with the telly, and arguing with life.

"It's ridiculous!"

They were in the middle of arguing with the television on a rainy afternoon. It was one of those court shows, and a separated couple was trying to decide who got to keep their dog.

"It's ridiculous that they're in court over a dog?" John stated the question cautiously, sticking his toe in to test the water.

"No, it's ridiculous that they're arguing over a dog. The dog has a brain, just let it decide. Or send it with whoever it follows around the most. It's not a car. It's a living thing."

John peered down at her. "So if you had a dog that you loved, and it picked the other person, you'd be okay with that?"

Sebastia chuckled. "No, it would pick me, I guarantee it."

John rolled his eyes. That was the thing about arguing with Sebastia. Sometimes you couldn't.


	10. Belated First Date

He had finally convinced her to go to dinner with him. It had to be somewhere quiet where they wouldn't be noticed, and Sebastia had insisted on buying some temporary hair dye, but he had convinced her to go. So why was he pacing the floor of his flat? Because their reservation was at seven, it was ten minutes 'til, and she wasn't at his flat yet. He sighed and flopped down in his chair. She was fine, he was sure, just late. Nothing to worry about.

Just about that time she burst through the door with a dress bag and a pair of heels in hand. Her hair was a deep chestnut that didn't quite suit her like blond did. "I'm so sorry I'm late. Just give me five minutes, okay?" John nodded and she hurried off to his room to change.

When she emerged, she flashed him another apologetic smile. He barely saw it though. He was too busy taking in her dress. It was a soft, flowing, pale red dress that fell just about her knees. She twirled once, grinning. "Do you like it?"

He smiled crookedly. "You look amazing."

They were late for their reservation, but the restaurant wasn't busy. That was why they had picked it, after all. They talked and laughed, and she stole food from his plate. They split a piece of cake, and she smudged icing on his nose. He got her back by eating most of the cake.

He'd been helping her for a while, but for the first time he felt like maybe, just maybe, she could be his.


	11. Taking Shots

She could make any shot. It was why she had gotten so far in the army. If she could get stationary, she could aim as far as the bullet would reach. With short distances, she didn't even have to stop moving. It was why she had kept Moriarty's attention for so long. She had a knack for killing.

With John, that knack wasn't held in the limelight. Jim's focus was always on her last shot. John's was on her last wound. With Jim she took care of herself. Around John, she didn't always have to. It was different, but after Jim's death, it was nice. It kept her from falling apart.

The knack was still there, and she still found jobs to keep her skills sharp. But she wasn't praised anymore. If anything, John elected to forget that she shot people when she wasn't with him. It seemed that he always saw the good in her.

He had a knack for it.


	12. Why Don't You Stay

It hit him hard one evening after he had stitched up her arm. She was sitting on the couch lacing up her boots. He was leaning against the doorframe watching her, and he realized he wanted her. Maybe not in the great, grand forever way, and not really even in the sense that he wanted her naked.

He just wanted her to stay.

He wanted her to fall asleep beside him, safe and sound, and wake up next to him and snuggle closer and refuse to leave. He wanted her to stay for breakfast, and complain about the programs he was watching on the telly. He didn't want her to run off and do god knows what and kill god knows who. He wanted her to let him take care of her, even though she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself. He didn't want her to show up bleeding at his door, he wanted her to be on his couch with a cuppa.

As she finished tying her laces he sat down next to her and put a hand on her knee. His face wrinkled into a look of confusion, a look of momentary lost-ness as he searched for the right way to put it. He finally settled on short, sweet, and simple. "Stay." She looked up at him with a grin, assuming it was a joke, but she saw the serious expression in his eyes and her face slid into a soft frown.

"I can't. Things to do, people to see."

His chest tightened as she stood and headed for the door. He stood and followed her, gently taking her hand to tug her back to him, planting a soft kiss on her forehead. Then he let her go. She offered up a small smile and left leaving him standing by the door. He knew, but he had to try anyways. She was a free spirit and a ferocious one too. He couldn't keep her safe, no matter how bad he wanted to.


	13. Let's Play Pretend

She was sitting on his couch. She was leaning against his shoulder watching crap telly. If he closed his eyes and deleted a few choice memories he could pretend that this was his life, that she was his girlfriend. But she wasn't his girlfriend and this wasn't his life. She was a killer. Moriarty's right hand woman. But once Sherlock and Moriarty were dead something had happened. She still killed people, but in the in-between hours she would come to him, and they would pretend. She found comfort in the safety he embodied, and he found a hint of a thrill when he gazed down at the tiger purring beside him. He never knew what to expect from her. She replaced the electricity Sherlock had taken when he fell. Sebastia would waltz in and out whenever she felt like it. She took away some of the control he had on his life, and to be honest, he liked it. He had always liked it.

Her gentle nudging brought him out of his contemplation. He glanced over at her with a soft smile.

"What's for dinner?" She inquired softly, as if it was perfectly normal for them to be sitting on his couch. And in that moment he wanted it to be normal. He wanted this to be his life. He wanted to forget about falls and criminal masterminds and snipers. So he went back to pretending.


	14. Can't Protect Her

As John sat on his couch, typing away at his computer, quite satisfied with his cuppa and the clanking coming from his keyboard, he heard a knock. He groaned, setting his computer aside and heading to the door. He bit back the cruel remarks he had planned for his visitor when he saw Sebastia leaning against the wall, holding her bleeding side. He waved her inside, glancing around to make sure no one was watching before he closed the door. He turned around to find that she had disappeared. He grabbed his small first aid kit and headed to the loo, assuming correctly that it was where she had disappeared to.

She was lying in the bathtub, considerate enough to try to keep the blood off his floor. His new landlord wasn't as forgiving as Mrs. Hudson when it came to destruction. She smiled up at him weakly as he prodded her into a sitting position, wincing as she lifted her arms so he could peel off her dirty shirt. He frowned at the gash on her side, grabbing a damp rag and dabbing gently at it. She suffered in silence as he went about his work, doing what no clinic would do. Patch her up without asking questions. That is, until he saw a nasty bruise on her raised wrist. One that looked a lot like a handprint. He took her hand gently to examine it, giving her a look when she tried to pull it away.

"Alright. What's this?"

She frowned up at him, but there was persistence in his gaze. "It's nothing, John," she huffed, like a child tired of being coddled.

"No, no it's not nothing. How did anyone get ahold of you long enough to leave this?" He moved his hand to match the scar. Hands held above her head. He raised an eyebrow at her.

She sighed bitterly and looked down at her lap. "He got the jump on me. I took care of it, though."

Dead now, John was sure. He didn't press the matter any further. He simply released her hand and nudged her arm back up so he could finish cleaning her side, stitching her side with tenderness and taping gauze over the area to protect it. He made a satisfied noise, pleased with his handiwork, and she stood. She kissed his head, pulled her messy shirt on over the gauze, and disappeared through the door. He heard the front door a moment later. She wasn't staying then.

He knew it was silly, feeling so protective of her. It was like trying to coddle a hurricane. She could take care of herself. _Except when she couldn't._ The thought flashed through the back of his mind, just to torture him for a second. He pushed it away and turned on the shower to rinse the blood out of his bathtub, letting the stray thought drain with the crimson.

He hated that bruise.


	15. Neighbors and Cake

John's new neighbor, Margo, was a ditzy brunette who, since she had moved in two days ago, had knocked on the door of his flat 15 times. When he heard a sixteenth knock, he groaned as he hoisted himself to his feet. "What do you want this time," he muttered under his breath. He pasted a smile on his face as he pulled the door open. "What can I do for yo-" he trailed off when he saw that it wasn't Margo. Sebastia stood, arms folded across her chest, an eyebrow raised at his showy cheeriness. She chuckled softly.

"Expecting someone else?"

John's expression slid into teasing smile, an almost instant occurrence any time she was around. "Yeah, my gorgeous new neighbor. And instead you're here."

She rolled her eyes and put a hand on his chest to push him back a bit, making room for her to step inside.

"Yeah, come on in."

She tosses a smirk over her shoulder as she heads to the kitchen, and he follows her, curious. Leaning against the doorframe, he watches as she begins rummaging through the cabinets and drawers. She turns to him, lips pursed and brows wrinkled. "Where do you keep the cake mix?"

"Why do you think I have cake mix?" His question is met with silence and an expectant stare. "To your left." She flashes a triumphant grin and turns to the cabinet, pulling out the box and moving to gather the rest of the ingredients from the fridge. He watches as she mixes everything together in the bowl, moving across the room to peer over her shoulder. "Why are you making cake?"

She reaches over her shoulder with the batter covered spoon, hitting his cheek with a wet thwack. "Because I wanted cake." She turns when he groans, catches his hand as he reaches up to clean his face. "Don't waste it!" Before John can question her she stands on her toes to lick it off his cheek, flashing him a smirk before turning back to her batter. He chuckles good-naturedly and hooks his arms around her waist. He might as well; she's already got him around her finger. Boy is he in trouble.


	16. This Isn't What I Wanted

The first time he saw her out wandering the streets was a bit jarring. She had always been a very secret part of his life, so seeing her outside in the crowd was odd. He wasn't going to follow her, but his feet seemed to move of his own accord. He followed her silently as she took turn after turn, finally ending up in a cemetery. She kneeled in front of a gravestone that read Moran. It felt wrong to invade on such a private moment, but he couldn't get himself to move as she broke down. He could hear her trembling voice through the crisp autumn air.

"I'm sorry, Mum. I know you'd be ashamed of what I've become. Dad would be too. I started out alright. Joined the war. Proved I could handle myself. I took care of my mates. I had the boys' backs. But then the war was over and I got bored. I wasn't sure what to do with myself, Mum. He helped me. I knew he was trouble, but, well, I couldn't stay away. Like you always said, my head rolled away with the wind. I was doing wrong, and I knew it, but I was doing something."

She paused, and for a moment he thought maybe she had discovered him. But after a moment and a few deep breaths she continued.

"He's dead now, the bad man. You were right about good winning out. I found a good man, Mum. I'm not sure how he feels about me, but I'm quite fond of him. He takes care of me. He keeps me grounded. He's sweet and strong like Daddy always was. I'm grateful for him. Heaven knows a sinner like me doesn't deserve an angel."

Her voice cracked as her sobs strengthened. She kept her composure just enough to continue her whimpering confession. John ached with the urge to go to her, but his feet wouldn't budge.

"I'm so sorry, Mum. I'm trying. I'm trying to find the way out. I'm sorry I took so long to visit, but I was so ashamed. You deserved a better daughter. I'm sorry, Mum. I love you."

With that she dissolved into shoulder-wracking sobs. John pressed through the invisible wall separating them, joining her on the ground, wrapping her up against his chest. She jumped, then settled into his arms.

"What are you doing here," she questioned between broken sobs.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to follow you and I didn't mean to listen in. We can pretend this never happened, yeah?" He brushed the tears out of her eyes with his thumb, kissing the blond hair plastered to her forehead. She nodded against his lips, curling tighter against his chest. He held her until the sobs stopped and she pulled away, peering up at him.

"Thank you."

He nodded, closing his eyes as she kissed his cheek softly. He kept them closed as her warmth disappeared. She faded like she always did, like a dream he was never quite sure he had. When he opened his eyes again he was alone, but he was smiling softly.


	17. Birthdays and Jam

"John, I don't want evidence of this."

He simply chuckled as Sebastia watched herself sleep on the little camcorder.

"You're evil, you know that?"

John sat down beside her on the couch and laughed again as he watched her watch in subdued horror. She had made the mistake of revealing the date of her birthday, then falling asleep on his couch on the eve of the aforementioned holiday. He had moved her to his bed and made her a big breakfast, bringing the meal in with a recorder to catch her sleepy, slightly irritated surprise. Nevertheless she had eaten breakfast happily, smearing jam on his cheek and kissing it away. He had caught every smile, every odd, rare, blissful moment on tape. John assumed anyone who didn't like birthdays had bad experiences as a child, so he wanted to make the day better. He was a doctor. That's what he did.

Once breakfast was done and she had practically tackled him to get the camera off, she sighed softly, laying her head on his shoulder.

"Thank you, you idiot. This wasn't completely horrible."

John smiled and leaned his head against the top of hers.

"You're welcome. You aren't completely horrible."

That earned him a smack on the arm. She chuckled and crawled over him off the bed, camera in hand to review the incriminating evidence.

She never deleted that tape though, and neither did he.


	18. Just Listen

She was curled up on his couch when he got home. He dropped his bag and hurried to her side out of instinct. Usually when she showed up she was injured. To his surprise, she seemed okay. He brushed her blond hair out of her face, watching as her green eyes fluttered open. He opened his mouth to greet her, ask her what she was doing in his flat, but he went silent as he saw her eyes fill with tears. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and he pulled her down to the floor into his lap. He began to speak again, to ask what was the matter, but she cut him off.

"Don't talk, please. Just listen. I know you won't like what you hear, but I need you to listen, please." The quiver in her voice broke his heart, and he nodded.

"I thought I saw Jim. There was a man strolling down the sidewalk who looked just like him. I went to him and he treated me like I was crazy. It wasn't him, of course. But I wanted it to be him so badly. I know he's dead, but there's a part of me that refuses to accept it. After the war, when I was just a pretty face with a pair of dog tags, he gave me a purpose. He didn't assume they were my Dad's dog tags, or some rubbish like that. He gave me a job and a life. I miss him." Her voice dissolved into soft sobbing. He held her tighter, and though her breakdown worried him, he was honestly glad he wasn't tending to her wounds for once. She let him hold her so long he lost track of time. The rest of the world disappeared as he fell asleep with the sun, his head on hers.

When he awoke his back was sore, his legs were asleep, and his lap was empty. There was a note on his table.

'Thanks for listening. Jim never took orders very well, especially "Don't talk."

Sebastia'

He crumpled the note with a crooked smile, tossing it in the rubbish bin.


	19. Shut Up and Drink Your Tea

Sebastia sat on the counter in one of John's old t-shirts, a cuppa grasped firmly between her hands. John would be home soon, so she had his tea steeping as well. As she finished the last of her tea, she sat the cup down and began fiddling with her dog tags. When she heard the door, and smile crept across her lips. She heard him set his things down and inhale, investigating the scent of tea and her perfume that that mingled in the air. He chuckled and headed for the kitchen, rolling his eyes when he saw her on the counter.

"What are you doing?"

He wasn't asking why she was in his flat. He wasn't asking where she had come from. He wasn't asking why she didn't just go to her own place. It was a simple question, posed in a way that she could answer as simply as she wanted. He was good with those.

"Making tea." She nudged his cup toward him, her other hand still fiddling with her tags. He ignored the cup, hooking a finger around her chain instead.

His eyes glazed over, remembering times long past. She could practically see him filtering through memories, trying to swim up through the past, back to the present. "Afghanistan or Iraq," he mumbled with a soft smile. Then he was back, glancing up at her, waiting for a reaction.

"Iraq," was all she said. Between the two of them, questions were few and far between.

"Well then, soldier, time for a cuppa."

"Colonel, actually."

He stared at her in surprised disbelief. "Really? Colonel?"

She nodded, sliding of the counter. She took his hand, his cup in the other, and headed toward the living room. "Yes, Captain Watson, and as your ranking officer I'm making it an express order that you need to come sit and enjoy this tea. I worked hard on it."

"You poured hot water on it."

"Shut up."

He didn't try to stop her though. He let her pull him to the couch, made room for her to curl against his side. He didn't try to argue that they weren't in any sort of war zone. Really, they were. When she was around, his flat became their own little war zone, and he was fine with losing.


	20. No Hero

He saw her on the street every so often. It was still jarring each time it happened. He was out getting milk one day, still his least favorite errand, when he spotted her across the street. He probably wouldn't have noticed her had she not been slugging a man. John watched as she told the man to get lost, putting a protective arm around a young woman. The man complied with a sneer, scurrying down the street. John watched as Sebastia coaxed the woman into a café, then took off in the direction the man had gone. That would certainly be a conversation for later.

It was three days before he saw her again. He came home to find her on his couch, holding a bag of vegetables to her head. He sat in his chair, gazing at her thoughtfully. She eyed him raising an eyebrow.

"What are you looking at?"

"Nothing, I just- When did you start saving people?"

Sebastia frowned at him, looking down at her lap. "That girl?"

"Yeah."

"The guy was a dirtbag. He had it coming."

"I didn't know you were the hero type."

Her eyes locked on his with a ferocity that startled him. There was a quiver that was barely audible in her voice, and she let the veggies fall to the couch, still clutched in her fist. "I am not a hero. The moment you start expecting greatness from me is the moment you are going to be catastrophically disappointed. Helping that girl, that was a fluke. It doesn't make me a good person."

John moved next to her, peering down at her with concern etched on his face. "Sebastia, why does this bother you so much? You did a good thing. You should be proud."

"I don't do good things, John! I kill people!" The room went silent. Sebastia closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "I kill people, John. Why do you let me stay?"

"Because you need me," John replied softly. "And believe it or not, I think I might need you." He put a finger on her chin, bringing her gaze back to his. She opened her eyes, revealing the tears that were threatening to spill over.

"Why would you need me?"

"You keep me from going insane."

John pulled her close, running his fingers through her hair. She kept him sane, so he'd try to return the favor and make her whole.


	21. What I'd Kill For You

Sebastia burst into John's flat, gun at the ready, met with the one sight she had hoped to avoid. John was blindfolded, taped to a chair, with a gun pointed at his head. Alexander, the man she had been hunting down, was sneering at her.

"Hello, Moran. Got a step ahead of you, did I?"

"Let him go." There was no room for debate in her voice. Alexander simply laughed, standing behind John, who sat stoically, never flinching.

"Stop chasing me and I'll let your little boy toy go."

"Alexander, I've got a job to do. Don't bring civilians into this. You're better than this."

The man chuckled, pressing the gun more firmly against John's neck, trigger finger twitching anxiously. He could see the hesitation flashing in her eyes. He had found her weakness. Now he just needed to use it against her. If he killed the civilian now, she would shoot him before he had time to inhale again. But if he could get her distracted long enough… He didn't have long to make his choice. He pushed the back of the chair firmly with his foot, sending it toppling on top of her. She cried out, but gathered enough composure to get a shot into his calf as he fled out the door. She rolled John and the chair he was attached to off of her, taking a deep breath before setting to work on his bonds.

Once he was free he set to word tending to her crushed ankle. He worked in silence, and she watched his hands as he worked. He wrapped it snugly and carried her to the couch. She smiled at him softly, gun still in hand, not taking any chances. She had to face the facts. He was her weakness, and she would have to protect him, or else they'd both be in trouble.


	22. Taking Care of Business

Everywhere John went, he felt like he was being watched. It was a quiet nagging sensation at first, but as time went on all the warnings in his head got louder and louder. He brushed it of as Mycroft or paranoia.

Time went on and it just got worse. He started watching his surrounding, and he picked out a face that seemed to appear a lot. He watched for it wherever he went, and he usually saw it. He tried not to let on that he knew. He assumed it would only make things worse. The man watching him didn't make any moves though, and the feeling of an imminent threat soon slipped from his mind. He never saw him too close to home, and the man just watched him, nothing more.

He brought it up casually as he was stitching up Sebastia's leg, trying to keep her distracted. She quirked an eyebrow, but said nothing more.

John was headed home from the pub one evening when he heard a clatter in an alley. He peered into the darkness and could just make out two silhouettes against the wall in a decidedly unromantic fashion. He was just drunk enough to be okay with heading down the alley to investigate, shouting at the figures.

"Oi, what's going on here?" He recognized his little spy, who was pinned to the wall, but he couldn't quite place the masked assailant until he caught a flash of green in her eyes. He cocked his head to the side. "What are you doing?" He heard her groan.

"Just go home, John."

He shook his head and crossed him arms over his chest. "No. Tell me what you're doing."

Even with her mask on her could picture the scowl on her face. "I'm taking care of something."

"This is the guy I told you about."

"You think I don't know that?"

He paused, looking lost for a moment. "Why are you doing this?"

"Because I can, John. Now go home."

He opened his mouth to protest, but she cut him off sharply. "Now, John." He sighed and pressed his lips into a firm line and he turned and walked away. He wasn't sure if it was the alcohol or the knife in her hand or the bite in her voice, but he didn't feel like arguing the moral high ground with her at the moment. He trudged home, collapsing into bed.

He wasn't followed again.


	23. Remember the Shot Before the Fall

She was angry, knees pulled to her chest, a shaking ball of rage and tears. He set his bags down and sat by her, draping his arm around her shoulder. He knew exactly what was going on, of course. He had just come back from the gravestone.

It had been two years.

He didn't know it would affect her this bad, though. It was a moment before she acknowledged him, peering up through angry tears. Her voice quivered as she choked out her words. "It's his fault, you know. Even if it's not I'm going to blame him. I know you don't want to hear it. You were his best friend. But because of Sherlock, Jim is dead." She paused to take a shuddering breathe and lean into his side.

"Sebastia, you're right. But you know what? I blame Moriarty for Sherlock's death. I don't know what happened on that damn roof, but Moriarty had something to do with it, and I had to watch my best friend jump to his death. It was horrible. I died a little that day. If anyone knows how you feel, it's me. Remember that, okay? I'll let you rant because I know it will make you feel better." He paused for a moment before muttering, "Keep going."

"He was more than just my boss," she started after a moment. "I'm not sure if it was love. Probably not. Love is for the good guys. It was just the way we fit. The way we worked. The way we killed. We were one person. He began where I ended. He was my home and what was left of my heart. Blacked and bloodied, but still. Then he got caught up with Sherlock and our jobs weren't enough." She paused and took another breath, her voice steadying a bit. "Everything was about that stupid detective. He always had to find a new trick to play. Honestly, I lost him before he died. To Sherlock. I guess that's what upsets me most. I thought he would kill Sherlock and we could go back to ruling the city from below. Instead he died."

John reached over to wipe a tear from her cheek. "I'm sorry, I really am."

There was silence for a while before Sebastia spoke again, almost too softly for John to hear. "I do feel better now."

He chuckled softly. "Good."


	24. Liar, Liar

"Are you wearing my trousers?"

John had come home to Sebastia sitting on his couch, a sight he was somewhat used to. What he wasn't used to, though was the fact that she seemed to be wearing his khakis. He sat down next to her and pulled at the suspected material to confirm that they were indeed his. She muttered a distracted affirmative, fixed on the telly.

"Sebastia," he prodded, "why are you wearing my trousers.

"Mine caught on fire." She made the remark so nonchalantly that John has to pause to make sure he heard her right.

"You caught them on fire? How badly?" His fingers instinctually danced down her leg to begin to examine it, but she pushed his hand away. "Did you burn yourself?" Her jeans were always quite snug, so surely if she caught them on fire she had caught her legs on fire as well.

She avoided his eyes, staring down at her lap. "I'm fine, John."

He took her hand and leaned down to peer up at her. "Sebastia, let me see." The command was gentle, but it was a command nonetheless. She glanced at him, then reached down to gently work up the leg of one of the trousers. He winced as he saw the angry, red, blistering burns that wound around her leg. He looked back up to her, a bit confused. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I hate burns. I can handle bullet holes and cuts, but burns… I don't know. I hate burns."

"How bad are they? How high do they go?"

She trailed a finger across her the middle of her thigh. "They get fainter the higher they go, but they still burn."

He took her hand and stood. "Come on, let's get you in some water." She followed him to the loo, dropping his trousers and standing by as he filled the tub. Once it was full she sunk herself into the water, ignoring the fact that she was soaking her underwear and t-shirt. She closed her eyes and sighed, forehead wrinkling as she willed away the pain. John perched on the edge of the tub, inspecting the burns through the water.

"How the hell did you catch yourself on fire and let it get this bad?"

"I was tucked behind a bunch of machinery. The pilot light caught the edge of my pants. I had a shot to take, though, so I waited."

John frowned. He couldn't understand why she would let something like that happen. Although, maybe he could. Those jobs meant everything to her. He just wished she wouldn't put herself at risk like that. She could see that wish on his face, and she grimaced.

"John, don't coddle me."

He nodded with a sigh. "I know."

Once she had soaked, he gently covered her legs with a burn cream, a treatment she did not endure quietly.

"Damn, that hurts!"

John smiled. "I thought you didn't want me to coddle you?"

She shot him a pointed stare. "I don't," she replied with a huff. "It just hurts," she added softly.

He finished and wrapped her legs, carrying her to the couch. He sat and she laid her head on his lap. "Thanks."

He smiled, stroking her hair. "You're welcome."


	25. November Rain

It was a bitterly cold November afternoon. Clouds blanketed the sky, a sign of impending rain. A man weaved through the crowd mostly unnoticed, long dark coat billowing out behind him. The bite of the cold could be seen on the man's thin, pale cheeks. The storm in his green gray eyes raged worse than the one above him. He was on a mission, finishing a job that had taken him three years. He had one last target, and he was following her blond hair through the crowd. His stomach lurched as they turned. They were on John's street. Sherlock Holmes had only dared to visit once since his supposed death, to make sure his dear friend was okay. Of course, okay was a relative term. John was in bad shape, but he would survive, Sherlock was sure of it.

Or, he had been sure. But now that he was following Moriarty's right hand man down John's street, he was concerned. When she picked John's lock and slipped inside, Sherlock's stomach plunged to his feet. He clenched his jaw, pacing in a frustrated circle. He took in one sharp, icy breath to gather his resolve, then burst inside. Mentally, he wasn't ready to reveal himself, but John's life was hanging in the balance. He took the steps two at a time, bursting through John's door. Sebastia was still standing in the living room, and her eyes locked on his. She shook her head in disbelief, fists clenching. "No," she muttered.

He stalked over to her, ready to attack. He threw a punch, but she dodged it and swung at his side. Sherlock heard something clatter in the kitchen, and he assumed John had seen him. He didn't dare risk a glance in the man's direction. He couldn't lose focus.

John couldn't believe his eyes. Sherlock was supposed to be dead, but there he was standing in the living room. His mug had fallen to the floor and shattered, but that fact barely registered. He was frozen, watching the fight in front of him. It wasn't until Sherlock had Sebastia pinned to the wall by her throat that he found his voice.

"Sherlock!"

The strangled cry rang in Sherlock's ears, taking him back to that day on St. Bart's roof. He didn't tear from Sebastia's though. He had waited for this day, waited for the time came for him to destroy the last strand of Moriarty's web. He hadn't expected John to be present, but it couldn't be helped now. Reconciliation with John would have to wait. He heard John cry out again.

"Sherlock, let her go!"

Sherlock froze. He didn't release her though. "John," he said, voice frighteningly calm, "she works for Moriarty."

"Worked," John corrected.

"She's still evil," Sherlock argued, scowling at Sebastia. John appeared at the corner of his vision, putting a hand on his shoulder. His gaze was hostile, and Sherlock was mildly surprised when he realized the hostility was directed at him. He released Sebastia, though his guard was still up. "John," he began, but John cut him off.

"So," he deadpanned, "you're not dead then?"

Sherlock sighed. "John, there are more pressing matters at the moment."

"No." John clenched his jaw, taking a deep breath. "I thought you were dead, Sherlock. I want an explanation. Now."

"He faked his death, obviously." Both men turned to Sebastia, who was still standing against the wall rubbing her neck. "Moriarty wanted him dead. I'm assuming he found a way out."

"I watched him fall," John exclaimed, pointing an accusing finger at Sherlock.

"You told me yourself he was brilliant," Sebastia replied flatly. She turned to inspect the detective who stood tall, despite the fact that it was clear his proud facade was starting to slip. Her eyes scrutinized him, traveling up and down him before locking on his. She was delighted by the slight discomfort she saw.

"You told her I was brilliant," Sherlock questioned, perking up a bit. John sent him a withering glare.

"Now is not the time to fan your ego, Sherlock," he snapped.

Sherlock's jaw went a bit slack, his shoulders sagging, though the motion was barely visible. He glanced between John and Sebastia, watching their silent conversation. It took only a split second of silent deduction for the gears to click into place. Disbelief clouded his eyes. "Are you two together?"

John wrapped an arm around Sebastia's waist, tugging her close. She leaned her head on his chest, eliciting a sneer from Sherlock. "She kills people," he repeated.

"She needs me," John replied.

Sherlock turned and stalked out the door. Sebastia watched John, expecting him to go after the detective. When he didn't, she ran after him herself. Rain had begun to fall, so she stayed under the awning. Sherlock had stopped at the edge of the sidewalk, and his shoulders tensed when he heard the door.

"Holmes, he's right. I need him." Sebastia paused to take a deep breath. "But he needs you. I'm not going to pretend that I could be noble and bow out of your lives. I'm far too selfish for that. But we can share, can't we?"

Despite the crowd, the world between them seemed silent. Sherlock turned to face her, looming over her, but she refused to be intimidated. She stood tall, meeting his icy gaze with one made of stone. They stood like that for a few more moments, locked in a silent war. Sherlock was the first to speak.

"You need him?"

"He makes me a better person."

Sebastia only saw a split second of thought. She saw the gears whir at light speed, then stop just as quickly. That heartbeat was all the time he needed to weigh all the options and make a decision. He nodded curtly and offered a simple, "Very well," then brushed past her to go back inside. Now he had to deal with John.

He found his friend seated stoically on the couch. He could see the muffled rage on John's face, mixed with something else. Relief? Joy? John was happy he was alive, but he was upset he had been lied to. So, from a logical standpoint, clarifying the gravity of the situation should ease John's mind. Sherlock seated himself across from John, noticing that Sebastia had made herself scarce. No doubt she was listening, but he didn't really care. His attention was now focused on John. But before he could speak, John held up a hand.

"Listen, Sherlock, before you smooth talk your way out of this, I want to let you know something. I died when you jumped. You were my best friend, one of my only friends in this world, and you left me. I took your pulse. I was heartbroken. Those three years were hell, but you know what makes it worse? It was all a lie. All that pain could've been skipped if you trusted me to keep your secret. But you didn't." John stopped, leaning back in his chair and pinching the bridge of his nose. After a moment he motioned for Sherlock to begin.

Sherlock opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again before he spoke. "John, Moriarty made me jump. He said he would kill you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade if I didn't comply. I had to stop his gunmen. I would've told you, but I didn't want to put you in danger. I had to take care of the rest of Moriarty's men so you would be safe."

"You don't think I can't handle myself?" John shouted, cutting Sherlock off.

"What would you do against a sniper, John? Be reasonable!" Sherlock yelled back.

John shook his head. "I don't know," he muttered with an exasperated sigh. "But I might have been able to help you. You don't have to face everything alone, you know. That's what friends are for."

Sherlock smiled softly. "You've said that before."

John groaned. "Yeah, and you didn't let me help you then either, you stupid twat. And look what happened."

Sherlock plopped down into a chair, slouching and letting out a soft, cautious chuckle. "Yes."

There was a soft clatter from the kitchen and Sebastia emerged with a steaming kettle on a tea tray. She set it down and poured two cups, putting sugar in her own before curling up next to John. "You can pour your own, Holmes."

Sherlock shot her a look and was about to offer his rebuttal, but John interrupted him.

"Now, now, you two play nice."

After one last pointed look, Sherlock leaned forward to pour himself a cup. They all sat in silence for a bit, cloudy sunlight filtering through the window and the patter of rain against the glass. Then Sherlock spoke up.

"So, John, what have you been doing lately?"


	26. Cigarettes and Milk

The flat was quiet. There were mugs in the sink filled with strange liquids. Something smelled. John sighed as he put the grocery bags down. He had to push aside a jar of eyeballs to fit the milk.

It was good to have Sherlock back.

"John," a voice, Sherlock's voice, called from the living room. John went to look for him and found him upside down in an armchair. "Did you get milk?"

"Yes, of course, Sherlock," John replied cheekily.

"No rows?" A small smile crept over Sherlock's face.

"No rows."

"And cigarettes?" Sherlock asked as John moved to sit down. John sighed again.

"Sherlock, I told you I'm not going to buy you cigarettes."

"Oh come on, John," Sherlock urged in a voice that usually helped him get his way. John, however, was having none of it.

"It's a bad habit. What happened to your patches?"

"The patches are boring."

John opened his mouth to reply as the door to the flat swung open. Sebastia entered, kicked off her shoes, then climbed over the back of the couch and curled herself into John's side in what seemed like one fluid motion. Instead of continuing his argument, he placed a kiss on the top of her head.

"Hello."

"Hello," she replied, adding, "Hello, Sherlock," after a long pause.

He groaned back at her.

"He's upset," John explained.

"Yes, I caught that. What's wrong this time?"

"John won't buy me cigarettes," Sherlock said at the same time that John said, "I won't buy him cigarettes."

She uttered a soft 'ah,' then fell silent and promptly fell asleep.

The rest of the evening was quiet. The soft rain and the noise from John's program were enough to drown out Sherlock's groaning and Sebastia's soft snores.

* * *

The flat was noisy. Sherlock was in the kitchen with his vials and his chemicals and all those other things he tinkered with. John had to slide past him to get to the fridge. He opened the fridge to put the milk in, but there was something large and wrapped that John decided he didn't want to touch.

"Sherlock, I don't want to know what this is, I just want you to move it."

"Did you get cigarettes?" Sherlock asked as her shoved aside an old carton of berries and slid the suspicious package next to it.

John chuckled and shook his head. "What do you think?"

Sherlock pursed his lips and was about to start whining when the door to the flat swung open. Sebastia entered, kicked off her shoes, threw something at Sherlock that he just managed to catch, climbed over the back of the couch and curled herself into a ball. John glanced from the couch to Sherlock, frowning at the pack of cigarettes Sherlock was opening.

"Sebastia," he exclaimed, and her head poked up over the back of the couch.

"Yes?" she asked innocently.

"You got him cigarettes?"

She shrugged.

John looked from one to the other and sighed.

"I need a cuppa."


	27. Did You Want Me To Miss You? pt 1

_For sweetmarly, who asked the question in just the right way to get the right answer from my brain. Here goes nothing._

* * *

Sebastia was going to throw up. 'Did you miss me' was flickering across every screen in sight and his face was there and _it wasn't possible_ and Sebastia was going to _throw up._ Her bags were on the ground, lettuce tumbling out in one direction and the pears would definitely be bruised and everything was probably getting wet like her socks were and Sebastia couldn't take her eyes off the screens. She couldn't breathe. Her heart had turned into a rock and fallen down to rest in her hip bones and her stomach was trying to claw its way up her neck.

Moriarty was alive?

 _It wasn't possible._

Sebastia turned and stumbled blindly down the street. All she could see was his face buzzing in front of her eyes. The door to John's flat was unlocked. The sound of John and Sherlock shouting and rushing back and forth echoed distantly. She found her way to an armchair and curled in on herself, shoes still soggy and cold. John came to see if she was okay, but all she could do was shake her head. She couldn't get the words to come. John was saying her name again and again. His hand was on her cheek. She looked up at him.

"Moriarty," she choked out.

"I know," John muttered.

"Perhaps it's a double," she heard Sherlock shouting, obviously ignoring them and continuing on with his own train of thought. "Perhaps it was a blank, and he had fake blood. Perhaps…"

"I have to go find him," Sebastia interjected.

John shook his head vigorously. "No, no, you mustn't, you can't."

Sebastia narrowed her eyes at John and was about to argue when Sherlock said, "I agree."

"You agree?" she breathed. "Since when do you agree with John's over-cautious mandates?"

Sherlock sighed, closed his eyes, and steepled his fingers. "Moriarty is dangerous."

Sebastia scoffed. "I think you've forgotten who I am."

John ran his fingers through her hair. "Dear, maybe just hold off for now. That's all we're saying."

She rubbed her temples. She hated being told what to do. But maybe they were right. Maybe she wasn't thinking straight. Maybe it wasn't even him.

But maybe it was.

"John, can you make me some tea?"

"Of course."

The moment John was out of earshot, Sherlock locked eyes with her. "You're going anyways, aren't you?"

She nodded.

"Will you let me come along?"

She shook her head.

"Very well."

"Are you going to tell John?"

Sherlock's lips quirked into a smile. "You know I won't."

She breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you, Sherlock."

Once John's breathing evened out, Sebastia slipped out of bed and out of the door.

The night was cold. Sebastia's shoes were still a little damp inside, despite sitting beside the fire all evening. Her hood was pulled low, her breath escaping in little puffs. She wasn't even exactly sure where she was going. The first place she went was their favorite bar. Then the warehouse they used to frequent. Then the riverside bench where they sat, or dumped bodies. She walked around until her toes were numb and her head was a blur, unable to remember where she had or hadn't looked. She ended up back at the bar.

"No luck?" A deep voice questioned from over her shoulder.

"Did you follow me?" She didn't have the energy to put any venom in her voice.

"Of course," Sherlock chuckled. He motioned to the bartender for two drinks.

They drank their beers in silence, elbows just touching. Finally, Sherlock stood and put a hand on her shoulder. "Home? You'll find him another night."

Sebastia nodded numbly and took his offered elbow. Halfway home she opted to tuck herself inside his coat instead. They looked like a lumpy man with four feet. A man watched them from the flat above the bar, fist pressed to the window, acid bubbling in his chest.

Moriarty's voice haunted her dreams. He crooned in her ear, raked his nails up her spine, then suddenly the floor dropped out from under her. He didn't catch her when fell. He laughed.

She awoke bolt upright in bed, fingers clutching the sheets. John reached out drowsily, fingertips brushing her arm.

"Are you okay?" he mumbled.

"Fine." She slipped out of bed, pausing at the doorway. "I'm going to go run a few errands. Pick up more pears. I'll see you later."

"Of course," John said, muffled by his pillow.

She passed Sherlock on her way through the living room.

"Don't forget aliases," he called softly as she left.

"Thank you," she called back as she shut the door behind her.


	28. Did You Want Me To Miss You? pt 2

Three days later she found it. Three days later she was standing at the door of the flat above the bar she was just in a few days earlier, staring a hole through the door. Her fist was hovering in front of the door. She was feeling nauseated again.

Then the door opened.

He was staring at her, obviously surprised, clutching a bag of garbage. He was wearing sweatpants, and he hadn't shaved yet.

"Jim—"

He dropped the bag and wrapped her up, kissing her fiercely. He pulled her inside and pushed her up against the wall, claiming her as he once had, nipping at her lip and sliding his hands up under the hem of her shirt. She could smell gunpowder, though it was memory, not sensory.

He pulled away, kissing down her neck. "I saw you with him," he growled. "What were you doing with him?"

"You were dead," she bit out, shoving him away and running her hands through her hair. "You were dead," she repeated, more softly this time.

He tried to quirk a cocky smile, but it faltered. "Come now, love—"

"No. You were dead, but you weren't, and you didn't tell me. Why wouldn't you tell me? You used to tell me everything. Did you ever care about me?"

There was a long silence.

"I'm not your weapon anymore, I'm not just some possession. You don't own me. You don't control me."

Just like that, he realized they weren't playing their old game, jabbing and twirling. "You're...you're not pleased that I'm back."

"I'm not pleased that you abandoned me in the first place."

"I see."

There was silence, then she reached up to stroke his cheek softly. "I'm not saying you'll never see me again, but I need time."

"And them?"

"They're kind to me. They're good for me. I care for them."

He sighed.

"When can I see you again?"

She smiled. "Don't follow me around. I know you were considering it. I'll find you when I'm ready."

He grazed the back of her hand with his fingertips. "No promises."

"I'll see you later."

He watched her go down the street until he couldn't see her.

* * *

John was on the couch when she got back to the flat. He was staring at the wall, hands folded. "You went after him," he muttered.

"Of course," she replied, her voice just as flat and careful as his.

"I thought you might." There was a long pause, but Sebastia stayed quiet. She could tell by the look on his face that he had something else to say, and just needed the time to get it out. When he spoke again, she could barely hear him. "Are you going back to him?"

"What?" she asked, a question that was half incredulity, and half clarification.

"Did you just come back," he asked, a little louder this time, "to get your things and leave?" He slowly stood and turned towards her. His eyes were watering.

She closed the distance between them, cupping his face in her hands. He closed his eyes, refused to look at her. She kissed his forehead and whispered against it. "John. John, John, John, John, John. I had to see him with my own eyes. I told him I needed time. Let's go to bed."

He opened his eyes and gazed at her for a long time, then tugged her against his side and began to pull her to his room. Sherlock chose that moment to storm through the door.

"And where have you been," John asked, sounding more chipper. His face fell, though, when he saw Sherlock's. He cocked his head to the side and his brow furrowed. "Sherlock, _where have you been_."

Sherlock looked up, appearing surprised to see them, and plastered on a fake grin. "Nowhere."

"You went to Moriarty's," Sebastia said flatly. "Is he still breathing, at least?"

Sherlock's face slipped back to it's usual seriousness. "He wasn't there. Appears to have vacated."

"Did you expect anything less?" She asked with a hollow-sounding chuckle.

"No," Sherlock replied. "Good night." He flashed a genuine smile that caught Sebastia briefly off guard.

"Good night," she called softly after him. She tugged on John's jumper. "Come on, bed."

John kissed the top of her head and pulled her close. "Yes, of course."


	29. Did You Want Me to Miss You? pt 3

As Sebastia pulled on her boots, she felt something in the toe. With a smile, she pulled out a folded piece of paper and stuck it in her pocket.

Sherlock had started taking cases again, and two or three times he had left her a name and an address and let her do what she did best. Because of course Sherlock Holmes was a well-behaved crime solver. That last thought made her laugh out loud. Secretly threatening people was her job now, and she was glad she had something productive to do.

"John, I'm going to get groceries," she called.

"Mmmpphhhrrm," he called back from the bedroom, likely with his face buried in a pillow.

As she made her way down the sidewalk, she unfolded the note. As she read it, she flipped it over, trying to find a name. There was only an address.

She went anyways, of course. Sherlock Holmes had tried to kill her the first time they spoke, though it hadn't quite been the first time they'd met, and she trusted him completely.

The address belonged to an empty office building. There were still a few desks left, and she came across a single chair lying on its side. All the rooms were nearly the same, with the exception of one room. There was a suitcase in the corner and an air mattress on the floor poking out from behind the desk.

She knew in an instant who it was. The room was empty, but it smelled like him. It smelled like Jim.

She turned around, closed the door, and marched angrily out of the building, not stopping until she reached a slightly sleep-mused Sherlock drinking his morning coffee. "Why?" she asked simply.

"I thought you might appreciate it. There was also the chance that you'd hate it entirely, but I thought I'd risk it. Was he there?"

"No. Probably out. But Holmes, I already saw him. I didn't need you to do that for me."

"You did?"

She smiled softly. "You're surprised I came back too."

"A bit."

She sighed heavily and sat down beside him, leaning against him just a bit. "Sherlock, I love him."

"John?" She could feel his eyes on her. He was steady. He didn't melt into her like John did. He was like a tree in the park. There was something rooted about him.

"Yes."

"And Moriarty?"

"Honestly? I don't know yet. I don't know what he wants. I don't know if he needs me. We were a team. When I lost Jim, I found John. Who does Jim have now?" She finally looked up at him and found his eyes as steady as the rest of him.

"He doesn't deserve someone," he replied flatly. There was no venom. He stated it as a simple fact.

"Neither did I."

He was silent for a moment, then he looked hesitant. He reached out slowly, laying a hand across her knee with a light pat, an attempt at comfort. He then dissolved into deep, rumbling chuckles. "I'm sorry."

"You tried, at least."

"We're a mess."

"Aren't we just?"

"Maybe Moriarty just needs a good dose of John."

Sebastia looked thoughtful, and when Sherlock saw that look he leaned away and began shaking his head.

"No. No. We are not all living together like some bloody comedy on crap telly," Sherlock said, his laughter starting up again.

She sighed. "Yes, I know. But still, he may need me."

"I'm sure he does."

"But I still need John."

"Don't we all."

"You know, I should probably actually go get groceries," Sebastia said. "I told John I would."

"Actually, he went out to get groceries because every time you say you're getting groceries you come back with bloody knuckles and every time you say you're going to the pub you come back drunk with groceries."

Sebastia groaned. "Fine. I'm making a cake, then."

* * *

Someone else reached for the same apple John did. He pulled his hand back and began to mumble an apology when his eyes finally reached the man's face. He took a step back and let out a gasp, almost dropping his basket.

"You," he hissed.

"Oh, hello, Johnny Boy," Jim replied nonchalantly.

"What are you doing? What are you plotting? You might as well just tell me; Sherlock's got it halfway figured out already," John snipped.

Jim laughed. "If he had it figured out, why would I need to tell you? Besides, I'm not planning anything."

"No one puts their face on every screen in the city if they're not planning something. Besides, there's arsenic in your cart, you snake."

Jim glanced down. "So there is. Don't you worry about that. It's irrelevant." He turned to leave, but John spoke before he could take a step.

"Leave her alone."

Jim turned around slowly, and his gaze had gone from nonchalant to sinister. "She's not yours."

"She's not yours either."

Jim glared at him for a moment longer, then turned and marched away. John stood beside the apples fuming silently. He was seriously contemplating killing Jim Moriarty.


	30. Did You Want Me To Miss You? pt 4 of 4

"You're in a bad mood," Sebastia remarked again.

"No, I'm not," John muttered again.

"Yes, you are," Sherlock commented, jumping into the conversation that he had been listening to from the kitchen.

"What's wrong?" Sebastia asked.

There was a moment of quiet, then John ran his hands down his face. "I saw him at the grocery store."

Neither listeners had to ask who he meant. "The store?"

John laughed incredulously. "Next to the apples."

"Well, he always liked apples," Sebastia commented.

"That he did," Sherlock commented offhandedly.

John was silent again, glancing back and forth between Sherlock and Sebastia with increasing incredulity. "What is wrong with the two of you?"

"She worked with him, and I am him, with a few caveats of course," Sherlock replied.

John stood and headed to the kitchen. "I need a cuppa."

Once he was gone, Sebastia moved from her armchair to a spot beside Sherlock on the couch. "You know we have to do something about that, right?"

"Are you suggesting we kill your ex-boyfriend?" Sherelock seemed a bit excited by the thought.

"No," she sighed. "And you don't have to look so pleased about that. I'm saying...well I don't know what I'm saying."

"You're saying you want to protect them from each other."

"Yeah, I suppose so. John's compassion is rubbing off on me."

"Yes, it does that. Quite bothersome."

"Convincing Moriarty to buy apples somewhere else would be a fantastic start."

"Very well, that's your job. Mine will be figuring out what he has planned and putting a stop to it. Go team," he added snarkily.

Sebastia moved back to her own chair as the kettle began to whistle. "And we don't tell John?"

Sherlock chuckled. "We never tell John."

* * *

The next day she went back to the office looking for Moriarty, half expecting him to have disappeared again. He was there, though, sitting on the edge of the air mattress, eating an apple, looking like a completely normal human being. It startled her. It was like they had time travelled backwards, and she was coming home from some errand on an off day, and he was just there, waiting for her. When his eyes met hers, her stomach dropped. She should've given Sherlock this job.

"You're back," he remarked, eyes wide. "I thought you'd torture me a bit longer. Unless you heard about my shopping trip."

"I did. You should shop somewhere else."

"What if I like shopping there? What if they carry my favorite kind of jam?"

"You hate jam. You prefer butter."

"My resurrection made me crave jam."

"You never died."

"You're in a terrible mood."

Sebastia crossed her arms. "Well you know how much I hate being a mediator."

"This is mediating?"

"Jim," she groaned.

He softened a bit. "You know, _I_ missed _you_."

" _You_ know _I've_ changed."

"Yes, I see that. No chance of getting my little tigress back, is there?"

"No, Jim. I'm sorry. I really am."

"I don't know how to be normal."

"The first step is not actively plotting to kill people," she said, sitting down beside him on the air mattress.

"You don't say?"

"I do say, actually," she laughed. "You know Sherlock is currently trying to figure out what you're doing."

"I was going old school, poisoning the water supply. Well, the tea supply. John's to be specific." He refused to make eye contact.

She swatted at his arm. "Really?"

"Yes, it was going flawlessly. I put it in his cart."

"Dammit, Jim." She pulled out her phone and texted Sherlock.

'toss all of johns tea'

'Why would I do that? SH'

'Also, find the shift key. SH'

'because jim poisoned it'

'also i do this just to bother you ;)'

'I hate you. SH'

She slipped her phone back in her pocket and turned back to Jim. "You can't poison my friends."

"I wasn't poisoning your friends. I was poisoning my enemies. Different."

She sighed and laid her head on his shoulder. "Jim, I'm tired."

"Well, I've got this beautiful mattress."

"No, Jim, I'm _tired._ I'm old before my time. I was a soldier, then your sniper, then I was lost. Now I can sit in a flat and watch crap telly with people who care about me. I can finally try to get the tiredness out of my bones. I _need_ this, Jim."

He laid his head on hers, reaching up to bury his fingers in her hair. "So you're saying if I want to see you again, I have to stop trying to kill Sherlock and John?"

"I'm afraid so. You've also got to remember that I'm with John."

Jim sucked in a sharp breath. "Don't think I'll be able to forget that. I'll have nightmares about that."

"But you'll stop?"

"Yes, I suppose. Unless I get bored."

"Jim, you need a hobby."

"I had a hobby. You just said I had to give it up."

She groaned, but it gave way to a giggle. "I'll teach you how to knit."

"Oh no, that sounds far more dreadful than boredom."

They both laughed for a while before Sebastia spoke again.

"So, are you okay?"

"Of course, Seb. I'm the king of okay."

She kissed his forehead and stood to leave, but paused by the door when he spoke again.

"Remember when I asked you if you were interested in the next war?"

She turned, leaning her head against the doorframe. "How could I ever forget that? That was an amazing night."

"We lost."

She smiled wryly, almost bitterly. "Can you imagine London if we had won?"

She walked away, not daring to look back. She couldn't right now. She was headed home to John, all warmth and caring and sweetness. That was what she needed, despite the voice in her head, the one that sounded eerily like Jim's bedroom voice, saying that she'd get bored of her life very soon. She loved John. She loved helping Sherlock. She loved making cakes. She'd be okay.

She was the queen of okay.

In fact, she'd be better than okay. She'd be with John.


End file.
